


Letters I'll Never Send

by Darkestsiren



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Diary/Journal, Forgiveness, Future, Happily Ever After, Love, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Regret, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Therapy, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkestsiren/pseuds/Darkestsiren
Summary: In the days and months following Justin's departure to New York, Brian writes letters to Justin that he's never meant to read. Because of business in New York, Brian gathers his courage and asks Justin if they can meet. But, when Michael sends the letters to Justin everything will change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is number four in my mini-series of what I think may have happened after the end of the show. This one will have several chapters, and is written as a series of letters Brian wrote to Justin, never intending to send. It'll continue with some of Justin's journal entries and finally finish up with an epilogue.  
> The others works in this series are all posted separately, so go check them out!

Dear Justin,

    You left. I know it was mutual, that we both decided this was best for both of us, but I’m having a hard time believing that right now. That first day, when I woke up in the empty bed we’d made love in, I knew I’d made the worst mistake of my life. I spent the day chain-smoking, falling apart, cursing myself and god and everyone in between, and then falling apart again.

    It feels so empty here without you, so quiet. Every other time you’ve left me I always knew in the back of mind somewhere that I could get you back. That I just had to show up, smile, tell you I wanted you back and there you’d be, silken heat beneath my hands, hot and eager under my lips.

    But now… 

    This feels final, like that was all I get of happiness. All I’m allowed. All I deserve. I’m finally not scared to admit it. I love you. I need you. So much I don’t know if I can go on without you. And you’re gone now. I let you go.

    How could I do this? It’s like a death sentence. No. It’s like I’m already dead. I feel dead. I wish I was dead. Maybe then this ache would stop.  

                                                                                                                                                                      --B.

 

Dear Justin,

     It’s been a week. Michael said he’d come over and cheer me up but I told him to stay home with his family. Odd, the feeling that elicited in me. Not disdain, disgust, revulsion… 

     Envy. Pure, burning, unadulterated jealousy. I spent my whole life mocking people who wanted that life and now I’m one of them. How does that happen?

     If I’m honest with myself, which is extremely unpleasant and I prefer not to be, I have to admit that it’s because of you. You built a home for me here, as much as I would let you, and I came to rely on that, that comfort, the feeling that I was taken care of, wanted, valued, needed. 

     God, I miss that. This loft is so fucking quiet without you. So cold. 

     I’m so… alone here. 

     I wish you’d never left. I wish I’d never let you leave. I wish I was good for you, the way you are for me. I… I can’t tell you how much it hurts to know that I’m not. God, I love you. I’m dying without you. 

                                                                                                                                                                     --B.

 

Dear Justin, 

     How long can this go on? 

     I can see it in their eyes, the looks of pity, worry. They don’t understand. I fucked up my only shot. You are the only person I’ll ever love and I lost you. I let you go. I had to, I know, but… I just wish there was another way. I wish I could have been different. Better. Healthy. 

     Michael said he thought I needed therapy. I’m sure he’s right but I can’t go to some hack and spill what’s in my guts. I can barely even say it to myself, how would I say it to someone else? You are the only person I’ve ever been able to be weak around. And even then I was scared out of my mind. 

     What would I even say? That I can’t feel anything anymore? That I’m dead inside? That my life is just one big sob-story of regret and promiscuity? Some legacy. 

     I’ve been having trouble working. Can’t get inspired. Can’t find that spark I used to have. Can’t see light or color or anything good anymore. I just want to curl up into a ball and never emerge again. This life is just pain now. 

     Fuck. I miss you so fucking much. How did I ever live before you? 

                                                                                                                                                                   --B.

 

Dear Justin,

     Things are a little better. I still wish things were different but at least I don’t want to die anymore. I saw a write up on your show. It was amazing, of course. I knew you’d do well, if I got out of your way. 

     Who am I kidding? I’m not really any better. Seeing that article was like a blade in my chest. There was a picture of you. You looked good. Smiling. Healthy and happy. I stared at it and cried for a fucking week. I feel more broken than ever. More raw. I keep thinking maybe I should go to New York, say hi. Pretend I’m just there on business and thought I’d look you up. But I don’t know if I could see you and not hold you, not tell you I want you back, that I love you still, just as much as before, kiss your gorgeous mouth and touch that fucking soft hair of yours. 

     I can’t. And I won’t. But, god, I wish I could. I want you back so fucking much. 

                                                                                                                                                                --B.

 

Dear Justin, 

     At first I figured this would pass, that it was just a side effect of heartbreak, but… I haven’t been able to get it up for anyone but you since you left. I even went to the doctor the other day, just to make sure there wasn’t something wrong. He said I’m fine. That it’s all in my head. That I need to wait for the right person. 

     The right person. 

     I already found the right person. And you’re gone. Never to return. It hurts to even think that, but I seem to be thinking it a lot these days. You’re never coming back. Ever. I know we said we’d just see how things went, that if it was meant to be we’d end up together again. But let’s be real. I don’t deserve you, and you certainly deserve better than me. You’re better off without me.

     At least I have the past. The way it was, once, when I was happy and you were happy - mostly. I can jerk off to that. Imagining you gets me hard in an instant. 

     I miss sex. I miss fucking you. I miss making love to you. Mostly, I just miss you. 

                                                                                                                                                               --B.

 

Dear Justin, 

     I haven’t written in a while. It’s been almost a year since you left. I’m not going to lie, this has been the shittiest year of my life. You taught me how to feel and then left me with everything I’d been ignoring for so long. I did finally start seeing a therapist. Michael literally dragged me into the office after he found me drunk, high, in the shower, sobbing hysterically. 

     It’s been good, I guess. I’ve realized some shit about myself, about why I am the way I am. Who knows, maybe I’ll even be able to change. I hope I can but to be honest I don’t have much hope. I don’t want anyone but you and I can’t have you now so who am I healing for? Myself? Most days I just want to drown out my own thoughts, all those feelings I can’t ignore anymore. 

     Thanks for that, by the way. I’m drowning here without you and it’s all your fault. 

     I know that isn’t true. I know if not for you I’d probably have pushed everyone I care about away and I really would be alone. But I feel alone no matter what I do anyway… 

     Fuck. 

     I still fucking miss you. I wish you’d come back. I wish I was brave enough to go there and see you. Find out how you’re doing, whether you miss me too. But I can’t. I’m too terrified that you don’t miss me at all. That you’re happy there on your own. Or worse, with someone else. 

     You deserve someone else. You deserve to be happy. You deserve the world. I just wish I was still your world. 

     My therapist says I need to let you go. I can’t even imagine doing that. Knowing you’re out there and that we might end up together someday is the only thing that keeps me going. The only reason I bother to breathe at all. 

     I love you, Justin. I love you so much. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, myself included. 

     Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I do need to let go. Let myself heal. I don’t know. It feels like if I do that it’ll really be over. Forever. And I can’t stand that. 

     God, I want you back. I’m dying without you. Still. 

                                                                                                                                                             --B.

 

Dear Justin,

     It’s a good thing you’ll never read these letters. I sound like a fucking lunatic. I guess after denying my feelings for so long it was a little overwhelming when I started to actually feel again. Feeling is hard. It takes a lot more bravery than I’d thought. And it’s exhausting. I feel like I’ve been tired for a year. And three months. And twelve days. 

     But who’s counting, eh?

     My therapist thinks these letters are good for me. A way to tell you how I feel without feeling afraid, or burdening you with my bullshit. She says I should tell letter-you everything. So here goes. 

     When I was five my dad came home drunk. He stumbled into his chair and kicked his feet up, yelled for a beer and turned on the TV. As the clueless five year old I was, I lumbered over to him, babbling about how I wanted a new pair of tennis shoes like my friend Mikey had. He ignored me so I climbed into his lap and repeated my plea. I remember he stank. I remember my mom yelled at me to get down. I remember his fist, hitting the ground head first, my mother screaming and rushing over. I remember my dad hit her too, told us we’d better get out of his sight. That he hated us always asking for things. That we weren’t worth the money. That we weren’t worth the effort. My mom, always reserved, was downright cold to me that night. She pushed me toward my room and told me to keep my damn mouth shut about what I wanted.

     I’m not sure if that was the first time. I don’t think it was, but it’s the first time I remember distinctly. And it wasn’t the last. I used to make a game of getting a rise out of him. See how far I could push before he’d snap, reach for his belt. Beat me until I begged him to stop. Dad, can I have $5 for comic books? Dad, can I go with you to work someday? Can I sit with you while you watch the game? Would you come to my graduation?

     I learned pretty early on that I didn’t matter. That I didn’t warrant his attention. That I was a nuisance at best and a pain in his ass most of the time. A burden. 

     It was different with my mom. Where my dad was all hot, drunken anger, my mom was cool, cold, reserved. She never told me she loved me, that she was happy I was alive. She never told me I’d done well in school, or that she was proud of me. It was like I didn’t even exist to her. Just a mouth to feed, a body to clothe. A burden. 

     When I realized I was gay it got a lot worse. But it also got better. I was twelve. I knew by then not to bother my parents with what was going on with me. I’d learned to rely on myself, to hide any vulnerability, any weakness. Anything that could be used to hurt me. I swore I’d never tell them about being gay. It would have been a death sentence. It created an even deeper divide between us and I finally started to look outside my family for people to connect with. But by then, I didn’t know how to connect anymore. Even my best friends, Michael, and later Lindsey, never really knew what was going on inside my head. Inside my heart. I never let them see. 

     I learned that I could be sort of happy like that, separate but still part of something. The scene became everything. In a lot of ways it took the place of a family for me. They were accepting, appreciative, affectionate. Of course I instinctively shied away from any kind of meaningful intimacy. The closest I ever wanted to get to anyone was when I was inside them. If they wanted to talk or cuddle after sex my stomach would turn. Literally. I wanted to puke. I knew that wasn’t normal but instead of trying to figure out why, or even admit it at all, I just made up a bunch of justifications for my behavior. You’ve heard them. Social nonconformity. Hetero-nonconformity. Down with the man. Etc. I used my sexuality and my gender as excuses for being closed off and emotionally unavailable. And I wondered why, year after year, it took more and more to satisfy me. To make me feel anything at all. 

     And then I met you. God, you were beautiful. Like a shining angel. I don’t have to tell you I was shitty to you. That I tried to keep you out of my heart. But I couldn’t. There was always something about you. Something that burned right past all my barriers. I saw it that first night. It’s probably why I picked you up, why I let you stay even after I knew how young you were. I was so hungry for something real. If only I’d been able to admit it. If only I’d even been able to recognize it.

     You were the one, Justin. The one who finally broke through to me. The one who looked at me, even as I was back then, and said: he’s worth it. He matters. You will never know how much that meant to me. Or how much it scared me.

     Which is, of course, why I fought so hard. I fell in love with you fast, faster than you know. It took me five years and nearly losing you to an explosion for me to finally have the guts to say it out loud, but I’d been in love with you since that first night. Making love to you that first time, your first time, it was like something that had been frozen inside me since I was a little kid finally thawed out. When I dropped you off that morning at your school and you asked when you could see me again I said, “You can see me in your dreams,” because I hoped you would. Because, I knew I’d be seeing you in my dreams, and I was way too scared to admit that I liked you, that I wanted to see you again. That wasn’t my MO. That wasn’t how I worked. I was a one-time guy. No repeats. So, I snarked and joked and made light of the amazing thing we’d shared and I watched as some of that indelible light dimmed from your eyes. I remember feeling ashamed, like I’d stolen something beautiful from you, like I’d taken a fragile part of your being and shattered it. 

     I hated myself even more after that, so I was even more harsh than usual when you showed up at my loft. But try as I might, you kept coming back. 

     I guess my point is that you had a profound affect on me, Justin, even then. And, I’m sorry I was so broken that I couldn’t recognize what we had before I ruined it.

     I don’t expect you to come back to me, though I’d take you back in a second if you wanted to come back. The truth is you are safer away from me. At least for now. 

     But I’m working on it. I’m working on myself. Thanks to you. Thanks to your love, I finally have the courage to face myself. I finally believe I’m worth it. 

                                                                                                                                      I love you, Justin. I always will.

                                                                                                                                                               --B.

 

Dear Justin, 

     I have to go to New York, to see a client. I’m terrified. Not of the client, of course. That’s easy. Always has been. Well, except for those first few months after you left. Nothing was easy then. No, I’m scared of seeing you. I’m scared of not seeing you. I’m scared of what it will feel like to be in the same city as you and not look you up. I want to. God, I want to. But I don’t know if you want me to and I can’t bring myself to ask. It’s been so long since we’ve spoken. I was so fucked up back then. 

     Maybe that’s part of what you liked about me. That I needed to be fixed. Helped. Healed. Loved. I don’t know. You were so young when we met, I don’t know if I was a one-off thing or if you have a thing for bad boys. It occurs to me that I don’t really know you anymore. If I even ever really did. I knew a part of you, certainly. Just as you knew a part of me. 

     I’d like for you to know me now. Really know me. All of me. I’m not afraid anymore. But I am afraid you won’t want to see me. Won’t want to know me. Cause that’s my thing, isn’t it? People who are supposed to care but don’t. My instinct is to hide, keep myself safe. But safe isn’t happy and I miss you so goddamn much… 

     I don’t know. 

     I should call you, maybe. It’s harder than it should be. Maybe I should just leave well enough alone. 

     But then my heart clenches and I know I can’t do that. I have to know. Once and for all. I have to at least ask. I deserve that much, don’t I? The truth… 

     God, I’m scared. I don’t even know what I’m scared of, I’m just scared. It doesn’t even matter how this turns out, I’m scared either way. You don’t want me anymore… You do… 

     Either way it will be a new challenge. A new phase of my life. 

     So, I’m going to call you. Or send you an email. Yes, that. Email is easier. And it gives you time to think about your response. 

     The trip is in two weeks. My heart is racing. 

                                                                                                                                                             --B.

 

Dear Justin, 

     I emailed you about ten minutes ago. I know I should go to the gym or something instead of sitting here waiting for your response but I can’t. I’m too anxious. I don’t even know what to hope for. I guess I’ll know when it happens. 

                                                                                                                                                            --B.

 

Dear Justin,

     This is a new set of letters that I’ll never send because the previous set was found by a meddlesome friend and forwarded to you. I swear I never wanted you to read all that. I never wanted to burden you with all my depressing bullshit. Fuck, Michael, what were you thinking?

     I sent you an apology email today, right after Michael told me what he’d done. Well, after I’d yelled at him for a solid hour. He said you deserved to be able to make an informed decision about whether to see me or not. That you needed to know how far I’d come. 

     I wish I could cancel my trip. I wish I could fly to Barbados instead of NY. I wish I was dead. If I thought I was scared before… 

     Fuck. 

     What the fuck am I going to do? How can I face you knowing that you’ve read all this? That you’ve seen inside me like that? 

     Now if you do decide to see me I’ll just be wondering if it’s pity making you say yes. Fuck. This isn’t how I wanted it to go. 

                                                                                                                                    I still love you, though. I always will.

                                                                                                                                                             --B.

 

Dear Justin,

     This came from you today. I’m sticking it here because it seems like it goes…

 

     Dear Brian, 

          There’s something I need to tell you. Don’t freak out, it’s better than you think. I asked Michael how you were doing, after I got your first email. Your message was so brief, so… distant, that I couldn’t make a decision without a little more insight. I’m sorry. I should have just called you, talked to you. I guess I was scared to hear your voice after all this time. 

          I never intended for Michael to violate your privacy, but please don’t be too mad at him. He was only trying to help. You, far more than me. He loves you so much, Brian. I hope you know that. 

          I haven’t read the letters. I want to, but not without your permission. If it helps, I have some journal entries I’d be willing to share with you. At least that way we’d be even… 

          Please let me know. 

                          Yours, 

                               Justin

 

Dear Justin, 

     You don’t know how happy I was to get your email. I was seriously freaking out. I’m still freaking out but… less, I guess. I emailed you back to go ahead and read the letters, and send me yours. It’s one of the scariest things I’ve ever done, being this open with you, but I think it might be our only way forward. 

     I hope… 

     I just hope. 

                                                                                                                                                              --B.

 

Dear Justin,

     I got your letters today. They are on art paper, of course, with sketches in the margins, and wine stains. They are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I’m scared to even open them but seeing as I leave for NY in the morning this is my last chance. Our last chance. 

     I decided to scan them and paste them all in here so I can have everything in one place. 

                                                                                                                                                            --B.

 


	2. Letters I'll Never Send - Justin's Journal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving Brian's letters from Michael, Justin sends his own journal to Brian, detailing the same time period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two of Letters I'll Never Send. These are the journal entries Justin agreed to send to Brian. They are on art paper, with doodles and illustrations and portraits in the margins, with the odd wine stain, coffee smear, and tear mark. They are arranged artistically, with the odd word is traced over several times here and there for emphasis. They are a work of art in and of themselves, so imagine them that way.
> 
> \--Ok, I tried SO hard to get all the formatting to show up the way I envisioned it and there are still a few places where's a little wonky but it's as good as I can get it. I have absolutely no HTML skills so… Please bare with me. ;)

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 1

 

Leaving today was the hardest thing that I’ve ever done. It was harder than physical therapy,

     harder than when I thought you hated me, harder than my dad telling me he wished I was

         dead. Walking away from love, from everything I’ve ever wanted… I kept asking myself if

              this was really the best thing. 

                You were so warm and soft and safe beside me. So trusting, for once. So perfect. That

                    face you make when you sleep… It’s like your essence is shining out of your pores,

                    lighting your face with something divine. I kissed you softly, over and over,

                wishing things were different. Wishing we were different, that this life was different. 

           We made love last night the way I’d always dreamed we would. Slow, and so softly I

       wanted to cry. I did cry, at the end. Because I love you so much it hurts. Because I knew what

 I was walking away from. What I was losing. 

                                                                        ~My first love. My prince. My Brian. 

                                                                        ~The person who taught me how to be brave. 

              ~The person who taught me to stand up for myself, to never take less than I deserve. 

I deserve you, Brian. I want you. Always. But I need to go, I need to grow up and make my own

life. I need to follow my destiny, praying all the while that it leads me back to you. 

And you need time for yourself now, too. Time to learn and heal and grow. 

You need space from this angsty love we have. I can only hope that 

someday, when we’re both ready, we’ll find each other again. 

That, when that happens it will be beautiful between us. 

As it should have been. 

~I’m losing the person who saved me, so many times and in so many ways, who’s given me so much, loved me so well. 

                                                                                            I mean that. 

                                               People say you were bad for me, treated me poorly, didn’t respect my feelings. 

                                     Lied and cheated and toyed with me. But they don’t know. They don’t know that you never

                                     once lied, that you never promised me anything you couldn’t - or wouldn’t - give me, that 

                                     you treated me with more tenderness and respect than anyone else. That your whole heart 

                                     was reflected in your eyes when you looked at me. Shining your love…  

                                                                                                                                        … even though you couldn’t say it.

                                  I don’t regret our time together, Brian. I treasure it. I treasure you. I hope, with every cell in my

                                                        body, that you find happiness. That you let yourself be loved. You deserve love.

                                                                                 All the love in the world. 

 

I hope I can survive without you. 

You’ve made me strong, so… fingers crossed. 

It’s a scary thing I’m doing. New York is huge and new and I’m just a small boy

                                                                                                                                                             from a small town. 

                                                                                                  Lindsey talked to a few people about me so I guess I’ll start there. I need a studio.

                                                                                         I need to paint. I have so much I need to paint. So much love and confusion

                                                                                 and pain and wonder and hope. So much fear. So much desperate yearning. So much you.

 

                                                          I miss you already, Brian. 

                                      But I always miss you, even when we’re together. 

                                   That was just the nature of our relationship, I guess. 

                                       And yes, it was a relationship. The whole time, 

                                                           all those years of 

                                                               you and me. 

 

~You are in my soul now, Brian, a part of me, and you always will be. 

                      ~I love you. So much I feel like I’m drowning in it most of the time. 

 

That’s another reason I have to go. I need to find out who I am. I want to marry you so much.

But not if it means losing ourselves in the process. And I was losing you, Brian. Bit by bit. I couldn’t bear that.

Nothing would be worse than watching you slowly suffocate yourself for me.

I love you far too much for that.

 

~I’m sitting on the plane now, 

writing, because I want to cry, 

but I can’t cry here. 

I feel like I’m leaving everything good behind me. 

I feel like I’m breaking in half. 

I feel like I’m bleeding, 

like my life is seeping away, drawn out of me faster and faster with each passing mile.

 

I can’t breathe. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 5

 

I’m settled. 

I guess. 

If you can call sleeping on a stranger’s couch settled. 

I miss the loft. I miss our bed. I miss… you. 

 

I miss you so much I can barely get up in the morning. 

Barely put one foot in front of the other. Barely make myself act civil, eat food, shower. 

 

~I can’t paint. Every time I try I just break down. 

Sybil, that’s Daphne’s friend, came in last night to find me doubled over, sobbing. Not my proudest moment, but there you go. She doesn’t know me yet, doesn’t know how 

unusual that is. She just patted my back and sent me off to bed. I laid there 

for hours wising I’d never left, that I could call you, hear your voice. 

Tell you that I love you. 

Anything. 

       Get on a plane. 

              I don’t want this banishment. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 12

 

                                                                               ~Sybil told me I should find a place of my own. (She’s tired of me.) 

                                                                                                        I don’t blame her; I’m a mess. 

 

I haven’t gone to see any of the people I was supposed to see… I just can’t muster the energy.

                 I hurt too much. 

                          I did just rip my own heart out. 

                          I deserve a little recoup time, don’t I? 

~~It’s funny. 

                               I didn’t realize until now how much I relied on everyone there. 

                        Deb and Michael and Lindsey and Mel. Emmet and my mom. Even Ted. 

                                                          But you most of all, Brian. 

                                                                        ~You~

        All those guys became my support system, though. Whenever I was on the outs with you I

                                                                      could always go to one of them. I guess I stole all 

                                                            of your friends. I guess I love all of you. All of them, too. 

 

~~And now I’m alone. I feel hemmed in 

                                                          by this huge city. 

                                                                                  By it’s bustling streets 

                                                                                                                   and the putrid stench, 

                                                                                                                                                   by the subways and 

                                                                                                                                                                                the restaurants and

                                                                                                                                                                                                             the cafes 

                                                                                                                                                                                and the galleries I’m

                                                                                                                                                  supposed to be getting my art into.

                                                                                                                   I’m trapped by the sheer 

                                                                                   foreignness of it, the

                                                         strangers on the street. 

No one smiles, 

no one moves out of your way, 

no one sees, 

no one 

cares. 

 

                                                                                           I’m invisible here. I don’t even exist. 

 

~I love you. That’s all I have now. Our broken love. The hole in my being. The way I break a little more every day. 

~I hate it here. It’s cold and cruel.                                                 …I want you. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 19

 

I found a place. It’s cold and shitty but… at least I don’t have to put up with Sybil anymore. At least I can break down in peace. 

                                                              It’s one giant room. No heat. A shared bathroom. A hot plate.

                                                              I’ll have to buy a mini-fridge or something. And a space heater.

                                                              Mom said she’d lend me the money. I hate taking loans but I haven’t

                                                              found any work yet and I can’t paint and I haven’t… Well. You know. I can’t. 

The good news is Michael called me to check in, see how I was doing. He said you were faking fine. That’s a relief. Something familiar. Strange, isn’t it? Something I used to hate has become

comforting somehow. He said you haven’t gone out since I left. He said he’s encouraging you to rebuild Babylon but you’re not interested. Said you said no one wanted to dance on the site of so

much death and terror. 

 

I agree. Let it die. 

 

                                                                                           He also said Ted told him you haven’t been keeping your usual hours at work.

                                                                                                         That when you do come in you’re ashen and unfocused. 

                                                                                                                       It _**hurts**_ to think of you _**hurting**_. 

But I have to admit that I’m glad too. 

That’s so selfish of me but… 

at least you’re as miserable as I am. 

At least we both miss what we had… 

Not that it changes anything.

God, I miss you. 

I hate this. 

Why did I come here? 

Why did I leave you? 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 25

 

I **dreamed** of us. 

It was warm and safe and comfortable and when you kissed me I wanted to melt into you and

stay there for eternity. We made love in the way of dreams, all emotion and colors and shapes,

and when I woke up, cold and alone, I cried and cried until my head hurt and I wanted to die. 

 

                                                                     And then I painted. 

It’s the first piece I’ve been able to make since I got here almost a month ago. I was starting to

worry that I couldn’t paint without you. My muse. My inspiration. But it seems you can still

inspire me, even all these many miles away. I wish you could see it. It’s my _**dream**_ , of course.

                       Red and blue and hot and swirling 

                             and when I look at it I feel like I did 

                                    when you were inside me that last time. 

                                          Perfect and broken. 

I cried when I finished it. 

                                                    …Cried …and cried …and cried 

                                                                                                                               God, I miss you.

 

                                            I know this is the right thing to have done, moving here, but I **hate** it.

                                                                              I **hate** being _**away**_ from you. I feel like I’m **missing** part of myself.

                                                                                                                          The part **I left** with you. I hope you **hold** it safely.

                                                                                                                                                                 I hope you still **love** me.

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 27

 

~I have obtained gainful employment. It’s nothing glamorous but it’ll do. A diner, like back

home. No one as great as Deb but there is this gal, Doris who’s pretty cool. She’s taken me

under her wing, I think. At least now I can pay my rent. Won’t be sleeping in the snow come

winter. 

I miss the loft… I miss your taste. Your smell. 

I miss that dark gleam your eyes get when you want me. 

In the shower. Up against the pillar in the main room. 

Over the kitchen counter. 

I’m hard just thinking about it. 

About you. 

God, I wish you were here. 

I wish you were fucking me. 

I need you inside me tonight.

                                                               ~I finished the painting from the other day. I’m pretty excited about it. I think it’s good. New.

                                                                       Hopefully the stuffy critic-types will think so too. I’m thinking of making it into a series.

                                                                              I’m going to call it Lost. Or, Once. Or, Brian. 

 

Brian. 

Brian.

Brian.

 

I love you, Brian. I miss you. You are in my thoughts and my heart and my soul and I’m never letting you out. I’m never letting go. I’m going to make it here and then I’m going to go back home and

tell you there’s nothing keeping us apart anymore. That I have my dream, and now it’s time I had my dream prince too. 

I’ve always loved you. Since the night we met. You branded yourself onto me and you’ll never leave. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day -  I forget. I can’t keep count.

 

                                                              I’ve been painting non-stop for days. I don’t think I’ve slept, or not much anyway.

                                                              I have so much to get down, so much to say, so much I feel. I have to capture this while

                                                              it’s fresh. 

                                                                                             It’s all **you** , Brian. 

                                                                                             It’s all us. 

                                                                                                                       It’s all of our crazy, our angst, our pain, our **love** , our purity,

                                                                                                                       our perfection, our _**decadence**_ , our sickness. It’s **US**. It’s

                                                                                                                       beautiful like you and pensive like me. It’s **ugly** too, and

                                                                                                                       sharp. And soft. And free. It’s free. I finally feel **free**. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 40. (I counted.)

 

I finished the series. There are fifteen pieces in all, connected by common imagery and theme. 

                                                                            Love. 

I’m calling it ‘First’ and I’ve divided it into three sections: ‘Inception,’ ‘Descent,’ and ‘Transmutation.’ It details our whole relationship up to the day I left. 

'Inception' goes from the excitement and fear and tenderness of our first night, to the trust we slowly developed, to the romance of you

coming to my prom, to the way you saved my life when I got bashed, and somehow found a way to save me from the lasting

trauma that paralyzed me afterward. 

'Descent' sinks into what I call the honeymoon phase 

of our relationship, when we were happiest. Endless nights 

at Babylon, fucking guys side by side, laughing at our own audacity, 

at how happy we were. 

The last section deals with how I became dissatisfied 

with being one of many, with never knowing for sure 

how you felt about me. The way I started to crave romance 

and stability and normalcy. A home. A family. 

The explosion, and what a wake up call that was for you. 

The change in our status, and the ultimate realizations we both came to about us. 

And ourselves.

                                                      It’s been hard getting it all down. Understanding it all. I’m sure there are still levels of us

                                                                                                                       I don’t yet see, don’t understand. But at least I’ve come this far. 

 

I hope you’re processing us as well, Brian. I hope you’re not pretending I never happened, going back to hiding yourself away behind your bravado and your brusqueness. Laughing off our love as

little more than time wasted. 

I hope you know you are the most important person in my life. 

I hope I’m yours. 

I love you. Now and always. 

 

I’m calling the gallery people tomorrow. Wish me luck. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 65 

 

It’s set! 

The show is up! 

It looks amazing, if I do say so myself. Lindsey says I’m allowed to be proud of myself. I wish you were proud of me. Your praise means more to me than anyone else’s ever will.

I wish you could see it. I wish you were here. I wish you’d come see me. I wish… 

It’s pointless to wish, I know. If you wanted to come you would. Whether I asked you to or not. I haven’t asked. I’m too afraid to call. To hear your voice. I know I’ll break down again and it’s been

almost a week since I cried for you. For us. 

 

Still. I wish you could see it. It’s for you after all.

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 70

 

The Gala was a success! I sold almost everything! I hate to part with it, especially these pieces, they’re so personal, but I have no choice.

This is what I came here to do. I still can’t believe it happened! I did get some good photos of the show so I guess they’re not totally lost, but…

Originals are always so much more powerful. I would have loved for you to have seen them. They were for you… My Brian. My First. 

                                                                                     A couple of agents saw the show and want to represent me.

                                                                                    I sure could use your advice. I have no idea how to evaluate them. I guess I’ll talk to Lindsey… 

I went home after the show, tired and happy and sad, and collapsed into bed. That’s when it hit me. It might be over now. **Us**. We might have moved on, left **us** behind. I don’t want that. 

I still want **us**. But, I have to admit the sharpness of it has lessened somewhat. Maybe it’s the art. Channeling everything onto the canvas instead of keeping it inside. I don’t know. 

I still miss you. I still love you. 

I still can’t look at other men. Even cute ones who flirt with me at my openings. 

I feel empty. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 90

 

                                                    Three months.                                              Three months.                                           Three months. 

 

It’s hard to believe. 

 

                                                                                 Since I last wrote I’ve been busy trying to paint. Trying. Not actually painting, just trying.

                                                                                 I have nothing new to say, so… I have nothing new to paint. 

                                                                                 I’ve taken on extra shifts at the diner to fill my time. 

                                                                                 Otherwise I just sit at home thinking about you. 

                                                                                            ~I wonder what you’re doing. 

                                                                                                     ~If you’re ok. If you miss me. If you’ve moved on, like I thought I was doing. 

                                                                                                              ~I don’t know, maybe I have in a way. It doesn’t hurt like it used to but it

                                                                                                                      ~still feels like something’s wrong. 

                                                                                                                      ~Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else, with someone else.

                    With you, my mind says. 

                    With you, my heart says. 

                                                                                         ~But I don’t really know if it’s that or if I just want someone. 

                                                                                                ~Someone to love me, someone I can love back. 

 

The thought of loving someone else makes me a little ill still. 

Like I’m betraying some part of myself. 

The part that’s still with you. 

I miss you still, my love. My Brian. Always my Brian. 

I hope you still think of me. I hope you’re not hurting anymore… 

That’s not true. I hope you’re still hurting, just a little. 

Just so I know I made a mark, that I matter to you. 

As much as you matter to me. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day - wtf

 

I’ve been in New York a year now, give or take. I’ve still only managed the one show, right after I got here. It seems my muse is being quiet. But I’m working at the diner still, and I still paint. I’ve

been volunteering at the local LGBTQ Center, making art for them, talking to kids about bullying and standing up for themselves. It makes me think about you, Brian. About how much you taught

me. How to be a man. How to be strong, a leader, unashamed. Unapologetic. No regrets, no excuses. 

You have no idea how much I respect you. How much I wish you were still in my life, even if we can’t be lovers. Partners. Husbands…

God, I miss you… 

God, I love you… 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 465

 

I got your email today. Your name popped up in my email list and I sat there for a good twenty minutes, staring at it in total shock. 

                                                                       You emailed me. You. Reached out to me. 

I still can’t really believe it. 

When I opened the message, I read it. Three times. Then I sat back and stared at it again.

                                                                      Wondering. Conflicted. Confused. Aching.

You’re coming to New York. You want to see me. 

You want to see me. 

                           Would I like to see you?

                                      Would I like to see you… 

 _ **Yes!**_ No. I don’t know. 

                                      I’m scared. What if nothing has changed? 

                                                                 What if everything has changed? 

                                                                                                           What if… ??? 

 

                                       I called Michael. I know it was a cheat but… there you go. I had to know more. He told me you were doing much better. 

                                      Healthier. Seeing a therapist. I nearly choked when I heard that. My Brian, seeing a therapist? Hell must have frozen over! 

                                      When I got off the phone I still didn’t know what to tell you. 

                                                               Would I like to see you? 

                                                                                    More than anything. 

 

But, what would that mean? Would we stare awkwardly at each other, remembering how easy it used to be?

How we could joke and laugh and fight and make up all in one sentence? 

I’m not sure what to say. I need time to think. 

 

 

Justin Taylor

Life After

Day 465

 

I got an email from Michael, shortly after our phone conversation. 

It’s a bunch docs of what looks like a journal. Your journal. 

I haven’t read it. 

I won’t, not without your permission. 

But, God, I want to. I’m desperate to know what’s been going on in your head.

                                                   I’m also terrified to read it. What if it’s horrible? What if it’s full of escapades,

                                                   or rantings of how much you hate me now, after what I did? What if you’re

                                                   miserable? Would that be better? Worse? 

                                                                                                             ~Fuck. 

                                                                                                                     I don’t know. 

This is so unfair. Even if you give me permission to read it, which you won’t - and, how could you know that I wouldn’t just read it anyhow? - this gives me an unfair advantage over you. An insight

into your thinking over the last year that you don’t have for me…  

I guess I could give you this journal. Let you into my thinking this past year. 

God, that’ll be embarrassing. But… 

                  ~The idea of seeing you again has me all aflutter. 

                  ~My heart is racing, my throat dry, my skin hypersensitive. 

                  ~I want to see you. I’m terrified of seeing you. 

What do I want from you? Do I want to rekindle things between us? Just touch base? Confirm that we’re just going to be acquaintances from now on? Friends?

I can’t breathe.

 

~~I set this aside for a few hours. Painted. For the first time in months I had something to paint.

It’s you. Always you, Brian. It’s hope; yearning; fear. The uncertain future. 

                                                                                                                                    Greens and blues and gold. Red. Fuscia.    

                                                                                                                              Bold, arching lines and deep pools of self doubt

                                                                                                                                            and burning desire. And love.

 

 **Yes** , I want to rekindle things between us. 

 **Yes** , I want to hear that you still love me. 

 **Yes** , I still love you. So, so much. 

 

But, will any of that matter? Will we be different enough, the same enough, for it to work?

 

~~I finally wrote back. Told you I was sorry Michael sent the letters without your permission, that I wouldn’t read them unless you wanted me to; offered my journal to you. This feels like a

beginning. Again. It feels fragile and timid and sacred. 

 

I’m holding my breath, waiting. 

 

~~Your response was swift. Read them, you say. Bravely. Please, send me yours. 

Signed, with love, 

                        Brian. 

 

My heart stutters. 

I read. 

I cry.

 

\--->>Brian,

          I worried about sending you that last letter. I don’t know what you want and it feels strange to tell you in such certain terms what I want. Especially after all this time… apart. 

          I don’t know. I wish I knew what you wanted to get out of this meeting, but I won’t ask. If you know, you’ll tell me. Right?

          I hope you learn what you need to from my journal. It’s a little mixed up. But I hope it helps balance out what you’ve shared with me. 

          Thank you for that. You are so, so beautiful, Brian. 

          I can’t wait to see you. 

                                           ~With love, 

                                                        Justin

 

 

***** 

Dear Justin,

You agreed to meet me. You read all my crazy ramblings and you still agreed to meet me. Even want to get back together. I can't fucking believe it!

I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you. I can barely focus on this stupid meeting. What the fuck company is this for again? What do they sell?

I couldn’t fucking care less. I’m so nervous about seeing you tonight that I’m sweating through this Armani suit. I’m going to have to head back to the hotel

to change before I go over to your place. I should dress casually anyway. Don’t want to make a weird impression. 

That’s stupid. This is you. My Justin. You know me, no matter what I’m wearing. Best when I’m not wearing anything at all. 

No. Stop thinking like that. I don’t know how this is going to go. I don’t know for sure that you want anything with me besides a friendly chat.

‘Hey, I read all your deepest feelings over the past year, all the shit you’ve dug up through months of therapy, but hey, like, how’s it going?’ Right. 

You wouldn’t do that to me. I don’t think. 

Have you been dating? It didn’t sound like it from your journal but… Maybe you omitted that part? Are you happy here now? Do you still want to come back home? Would I let you? 

Should I move out here? If we… ?

I know, I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Focus on this stupid meeting, Brian. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! Are you still with me, hanging on like these two boys are? I hope so!  
> Please, please, let me know what you think! I appreciate all feedback.


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After having exchanged letters, Brian and Justin agree to meet. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the final installment of Letters I'll Never Send. We're back to Brian's perspective for this one. I hope you like it.

Dear Justin,

 

     It feels weird to write this now. After. But I want to get it all down. I want to save it forever. I want it to be just as it happened, so I’ll always have it.

***

     I stand outside your door for ten minutes, gathering my courage, before I can make myself knock. My heart is pounding so fast I think I might be having some kind of cardiac event.

     You open the door, swearing under your breath as you fumble the latch.

     And there you are. 

     God, jesus, fuck. You are so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. It’s not like I’d forgotten, but seeing you again is like that first time all over again. You were like an angel that night. You still are. You stand there, nervous and shaking like I am, but pale and glowing and glorious, and your eyes are so steady, so sure, that I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

     You breathe out my name and I want to fall at your feet, give myself to you any way you’ll take me.

     I can’t.

     I still didn’t know how this was going to go. 

     I stand there staring at you like an idiot, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, for far too long. You’re wearing my absolute favorite outfit. It’s not Armani or Gucci. Just a tight white t-shirt and those violet-blue jeans that hug your hips just right and make your eyes sparkle. Around your wrist you’re wearing the band of cowry shells I gave you before you left. I wonder if you always wear it, or if you put it on just for tonight. Just for me. 

     I manage a quick ‘Hey,’ trying desperately to make my mind work. But your lips are full and pink and pulling up into that barely there smile and all I want is to pull you to me. Lose myself in you. Save myself in you. 

     But that isn’t fair. I can’t expect anyone to save me but me. And I don’t want to put that burden on you. I want this to be how it should have been, all this time. I want this to be healthy. Right. I want it to last. It has to last. 

     I have to do this right. 

     Our eyes have locked and the air between us is close and warm, full of expectation and fear. Mine, I wonder, or yours? Or both?

     You ask me to come in then, swallowing as you stand aside to let me pass. Your apartment is small, artistically appointed, as I knew it would be, the little table in the main room laid out with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a plate of cheese. No bread. I hide a smile. Of course you’d remember that I don’t eat carbs after 6:00. 

     I look down at you for a long moment before I let myself go in. I know you so well, and you’re still so easy to read. Your desire is written in your blue eyes, in the way your breath is coming, shallow and short, in the way your lips seem to call out for mine. But I don’t want to make any assumptions. This thing we have, it isn’t about sex. Sex was never our problem anyway.

     You want it though, I can see that. And it makes me so hard it almost hurts. 

     Not yet, Brian, I tell myself. Not yet. 

     I take a step forward, accepting your offer to enter your home, and you step in front of me, close, your head tilting up. Asking.

     My cock aches.

     I hold off for as long as I can. It’s only a moment but it’s enough. Our lips crash together, sweet and urgent and desperate, and I almost cry. Your arms band around me, pull me in, grab and touch and demand. I find that miraculous blond hair and pull you in, deepening the kiss, giving myself over like an offering. 

     You moan into my mouth and the sound goes straight through me. You turn, kick the door shut, and pull me, staggering, toward the bed in the corner. 

     **Yes!** It’s like a victory song in my head. My body is in charge now, my mind screaming something at me from some far distance, something I’m trying to ignore. Something I shouldn’t ignore. Fuck.  

     “Wait,” I gasp, pulling away. I can believe my own words.

     You freeze, panic on your flushed face.

     Fuck, you’re beautiful. And so, so precious. The thought of breaking you, hurting you, even just a little, is paralyzing. I pull you back in, folding my arms around you until we’re pressed together. “We should talk,” I say softly. I can’t believe I manage it. My body is so hot, so demanding, it’s almost impossible to push my desire to the background. But I have to. I have to have you. And not just in the bedroom. 

     From where you’re cocooned in my embrace, you take a breath and nod slowly. 

     I breathe a little easier then but the cold fist of fear in my stomach clenches tightly. I wave to the table and suggest we partake of the wine you set out. I’m going to need it if I’m going to get through this. 

     You pull away, eyes on the floor, and I worry that I’ve hurt you already. You agree to the wine. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips held tightly. You’re unsure, afraid. Embarrassed. 

     I want to gouge out my own eyes for making you feel that way. But I know it will be better if we talk first. It will, right? 

     Right. “Justin,” I say, keeping my voice as soft as I can. I swallow. Take a breath. Just get this out, Brian, I tell myself. “I want to be with you. I want us to be a couple.”

     You look up, shock and hope clear on your face. 

     That’s a good sign, right? I go on. Tell him that I think we should take this slowly. At least at first.

     You nod. Give me a tiny smile. You uncork the bottle. Pour. Hand me a glass. Raise your own. “To new beginnings.”

     I take the glass, smiling, raise it, take a sip. I see the way your eyes are so wide, the way your pulse is hammering in your throat, the way your chest is outlined so well in that t-shirt. And those jeans… 

     I set my glass down, clear my throat. Swallow. My cock is so hard, my mind so blank. White hot desire is burning through me. “I…”

     You look at me, all hope and dreams and love and stars in your blue eyes. “Move to New York,” you blurt out. You curse then, and turn away. 

     I can taste your embarrassment, and it hurts. I set my hands on your shoulders and spin you around, to reassure you, to put your doubts to rest. My lips are on yours before I can speak. Soft and sweet and so, so welcome. “Justin.” A breath only. “Justin.” 

     I don’t stop you this time when you pull me over to the bed. Instead I let myself get lost in your kiss, your scent, your skin. God, I missed this. Missed you. So much I didn’t think I’d survive it sometimes. 

     I press into you, desperate to be as close as possible, aching for more. 

     “I love you, Justin,” I tell you. Over and over again, with each caress, each gasp, each thrust, until we’re both breaking apart, voices raised in heated bliss.

     There are tears in your eyes. There are tears in mine too. We kiss them away. Hold each other close. Breathe each other’s air, letting it sink into us.

     This, I think. This moment. Just holding you. This is why I’m alive. 

     “I can’t live without you anymore,” I admit. It hurts to say it out loud but I know you need to hear it. I need you to hear it. I need to say it. I need you. Your love. I can admit that now. I’m not scared of it anymore, I’m not afraid to seem weak, vulnerable. I trust you. “You’re a part of me now,” I tell you. “I need you close.” My arms tighten around you as I speak.  

     You nod, smiling now. You look into my eyes, touch my face with soft, adoring fingers. “So do I, Brian,” you say. “Always.”

     “Always.”

     I feel lighter than I’ve ever felt. I feel like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be. Safe. Loved. Free. At peace. 

     We make love all night. Sleep most of the following day. Eat whatever’s around. Last night’s cheese. The box of cheerios from the pantry, dry. An apple. It feels like a feast. We make plans. I call Ted, ask him to run numbers. I want to move to New York, to be with you here in the City. I want to open a Kinnetic branch here. It’s a great market and there’s no reason not to make the move. Not anymore.

     You call your mother and ask her to put us in touch with a good realtor here. You hand me the phone and I tell her we’re going to need a large apartment with studio space and an office that screams style. I can hear her smirk over the line. She says she’s happy for us. 

     We call out for dinner, not bothering with clothes. We talk and laugh and kiss and smile and touch. We shower and smoke and drink and make love. It feels like we’re happier than we’ve ever been before. We are.

     “Come with me when I go back,” I say later. We’re lying in bed again, covered in sweat, still panting from our last tryst. “Help me pack up, say goodbye.”

     You nuzzle into my neck, your smile so big I can feel it on my skin. “‘Course,” you breathe. “I finally have you back, there’s no way I’m ever letting you out of my sight again.”

     My laughter shakes the bed. We kiss and kiss and kiss.

                                                                                      --B.

 

 

Dear Justin, 

 

     It’s amazing what happens when two people actually say what they feel. You and I have spent the last two weeks hammering out the specifics of how we are going to work now. I forced myself, and you, to be brutally honest about what didn’t work between us before and why, and how each of us wants things to be now. And now, after a couple of weeks of hard negotiating -- you’ve grown up a lot, by the way-- we’ve finally hashed out a very nonconventional, but nonetheless functional - I hope - structure for ourselves. 

     For posterity, I’m recording it here. We each have a copy we’re keeping somewhere safe so that if there are ever disagreements we can refer to it. It’s an idea I got from my therapist. So, here’s what we’ve come up with:

 

  * We aren’t monogamous, but we are committed. We both crave variety, color, and the freeing wildness of abandon. Therefore, we are free to take other men, sharing as the mood strikes. (I’m not 100% sure I will actually end up doing this. I can hardly believe I’m saying that, but… given the last year, I’m just not sure I need that anymore. But, better safe than sorry. I’d rather have permission than slip up and end up hurting us again.) 



 

  * Neither of us will ever sleep with the same man twice. 



 

  * We will never kiss anyone else on the lips. 



 

  * We both promise to always be home by 3:00am. 



 

  * At least half the sex either of us has will be with each other. 



 

  * On special occasions: holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and any celebration held in one or the other’s honor, we’ll always be together; just the two of us. No tricks. 



 

  * If one of us starts to feel ignored or passed over, we’ll let the other know. If, and when, that does happen, changes will be made: a brief hiatus from tricking; special attention given-- flowers, romance, lots of amazing sex, ‘I love you’s’ exchanged freely, etc.



 

  * We will always put each other above anyone else. (If you ask me to attend an opening at a gallery, I attend. If I ask you to be my arm candy at a company function, you dress to the nines and smile prettily on my arm. Whether we both pick up attractive men to fuck in the back rooms of said functions or not is totally within our rights, individually or as a couple.)



 

So there it is. Our new us. I hope it works. I need it to work. I love you so much. I need this life. I need you. 

                                                                                         --B.

 

 

Dear Justin, 

 

     I’ve been so happy I haven’t written in a long, long while. 

     Things are amazing between us. Better than they ever were before. In some ways I think you moving away, that horrific year we spent apart, may have been the best thing for us. I understand myself so much better now, and it helps me understand everything else too. Like why you get upset with me for working too hard. Before, I used to think you were being possessive, selfish, that you didn’t understand how important and demanding my job was. But I see it now. Because you have been working just as hard as I have and I worry. I worry that you’re working too hard, that you’ll make yourself sick, or burn out. That you’ll grow to hate your art because it takes so much out of you. And I finally realize that that was always why you harped on me for working so much. Sure, you wanted more of me for yourself, but mostly you were worried about me. The way I worry about you now. 

     Your mom found us a great apartment, as I knew she would. No other realtor required. It’s huge, spacious, with a comfortable living area and a lavish bedroom. And, of course, a studio for you. I remember watching you set it up, before you’d even unpacked your clothes. I hid in the relative privacy of the living room, and watched, smiling, as you arranged your paints and brushes, shoved the huge table I’d bought you into the center of the room, laid out a fresh canvas.

      I opened a Kinnetic branch, as planned. It took a lot of work. Like, a lot. It took me away from you so much that I worried I was sabotaging the new, fragile thing we were building between us. I shouldn’t have worried. You were a rock during all that, Justin. Telling me you understood, making me dinner, and bringing it to me on late nights. Those were good nights. We fucked in the new office, christening every new, polished surface we could. My mahogany desk, the Italian couches, the floor, the conference table, the reception counter. When my new assistant walked in on us I think I actually blushed! The way you looked at me told me you’d thought that was impossible. You laughed and kissed me, hard. Sylvia, the assistant, excused herself, shaking her head. The next day she asked for a raise. I gave it to her.

     It’s been almost two years since I came to New York and got you back. Life is more beautiful than I ever thought it would be. But I find myself wanting something more… I’m not sure what yet. Just, something. 

                                                                                      --B.

 

 

Dear Justin,

 

     I can’t fucking believe this but… We did it! And it’s fucking legal!

     We got fucking married! (Only three and half years late to the altar, no big.) Rings and vows and signed papers, and you’re officially, legally mine. And I’m yours. We’re not amending our previous relationship agreement. It works surprisingly well so why change it? Just, now, we can file joint taxes, I can get you on my health care plan, and… if we ever decide to adopt… Well. We’ll see.

     It was a simple ceremony. Simple flowers, simple food. Simple promises. Just love and respect and forever. We kissed in front of our friends, toasted each other and our unique relationship, danced until dawn. 

     And, as the light broke over the horizon and shone into our bedroom like liquid gold, we made love as a married couple for the first time. Joining with you, that night, I felt like I was floating, like I was so happy I could have died right then, drifted off to heaven and never even realized. You held me tight and called me ‘my Brian.’ 

     It’s kind of become my unofficial pet name now. I like it. I like being yours. I’ll be yours forever. 

                                                                                      --B.

 

Dear Justin, 

 

     This is why I keep seeing the therapist. I’m still working on everything, as you can obviously see. I’m sorry about today. I know reacted poorly. It was a surprise, that’s all. I still have to try not to close down, not to deny myself love and recognition. I still have to fight against my need to always be the best at everything. 

     It’s getting easier. You help. More than you know. Always there with a gentle reminder, a kind touch, a stern but loving look. 

     God, I have no idea what I’d do without you. I love you. You are my always. 

                                                                                      --B.

 

Dear Justin,

 

     Kinnetic is doing well. The damn place nearly runs itself these days. I’m thinking of taking some time off to travel. You’d like to paint Amsterdam, wouldn’t you? You’re so busy though. Always covered in paint. Fuck, you’re so sexy covered in paint. Your studio is plastered with the trials and successes of our life, every moment captured in color and stroke on canvas after canvas. Sometimes I hate going in there, seeing it all laid out like that. But most times I love it. I love our life. Who would have thought I’d ever be able to say that, eh? 

     You’re down at the LGBTQ center right now, organizing a fundraiser, I think. You’re donating art, too. Deb would be so proud. Who am I kidding? She is proud. ‘My Sunshine teaching art at the Center? To little LGBTQ kids? Well, of course he is! He’s the most talented, loving man I ever knew!’

     And she’s right. You are. 

     Your success has been hard won, but I always knew you could do it. You’re sure in demand now. Just ask that gallery manager in Florence last year. He was about to get down on his knees and suck your cock right in the middle of the reception he was so excited about your work. And he wasn’t the only one. That tour was amazing. I was so fucking proud of you. And, you probably got more hot ass than I did that trip. In between the romantic sightseeing trips you insisted on, of course. Crêpes in Paris, grappa in… well all of Italy, really, shopping in Milan. And, lest I forget, fucking amazing sex in Monet’s gardens. Nice gardens, btw… 

                                                                                      --B.

 

Dear Justin,

 

     Something that I thought would never, ever happen, happened today. Two things, actually. 

     First, I turned forty. 

     I know what you’re thinking. Brian fucking Kinney is FORTY! How the hell did that even happen??? 

     I seriously have no fucking idea. 

     But, the second thing that happened today is even more astounding. 

     I told you that I want to adopt a child. I want a family.

     The look on your face made all my fear and insecurity and worry dissolve into nothing. You just smiled, love and pride beaming from those blue eyes of yours, and told me you’d like that too. You kissed me in that way I’ve come to understand and cherish over time. The way you do when you’re amazed and proud at far we’ve come, how far I’ve come.

     It’s all because of you, my love. My Justin.

                                                                                      --B. 

 

Dear Justin,

 

     She’s here! Our little girl. Our Elizabeth! I’m terrified and excited and so, so in love with her already. I am suddenly aware that everything I’ve lived and done up to now has just been rehearsal for this. For raising a human being in this crazy, fucked up world. 

     We are going to love this kid more than any kid has ever been loved, Justin. She will want for nothing, she will always be heard, and cherished, the way all children should be. She will be raised in a home full of warmth and creativity and life. And love. So much love. 

     I love you, Justin. Thank you for this beautiful life. Thank you for _you_. 

                                                                                      --B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! Happily ever after. ;-)  
> Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> More to come! Let me know what you think so far. Thanks!


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